“Don’t make this difficult. Your grandfather always intended the property to stay in the family.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I placed the garbage bags neatly on the floor.
Because Grandpa had already told me exactly what to do.
In the hospital, he had taken my hand and whispered,
“When they come, don’t argue at the door. Let them inside. Let them talk. Let them show everyone exactly who they are.”
Then he added,
“After that, open my study.”
So I said nothing.
I let Mom walk through the house like she owned it.
I let Brianna plan renovations.
I let Dad order the movers around.
Then the locked study door at the end of the hallway clicked.
And slowly swung open.
Mom’s face changed so fast she dropped one of the garbage bags.
The study door opened wide.
Inside stood Mr. Harlan, Grandpa’s attorney.
Beside him were two uniformed deputies, a woman holding a camera, and Mrs. Alvarez from next door—the woman who had brought casseroles almost every night during Grandpa’s final month.
Mom took one step backward.
“What is this?”
Mr. Harlan adjusted his glasses.
“Good morning, Linda. Robert. Brianna. Emily.”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Harlan, you had no right to enter this house.”
“I had every right,” Mr. Harlan said calmly. “Your father gave me a key, written authorization, and very specific instructions.”
Brianna rushed down the stairs.
“Wait. Is this about the will?”
Mom recovered quickly.
Too quickly.
